


BUTTLESS

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Codpieces, Dress Up, Frottage, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Snogging, arses, conveniently detachable codpieces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 16:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft have a bet, John and Greg get roped into it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> From a post on facebook that started with cowboys and ended with drooling over butts. In buttless chaps.
> 
> Good times, my friends, good times. ;) 
> 
> Yes, 'roped into it' was an intentional cowboy quip.

“There’s no way you are more capable than I of dressing appropriately for an event, Mycroft.” Sherlock spat his brother’s name, the general atmosphere of derision at a peak after the steady stream of insults they had thrown at each other in the last few moments.

“I believe this might be a prime example, actually.” Mycroft drawled, pointedly looking up and down at the bespoke suit Sherlock wore. It was covered in refuse, a nasty sludge running down one leg, and he stank to high heaven. His shoes were ruined, and the shirt, which had been white, was greyed with sweat, and torn where the criminal had grabbed at him.

“We were speaking of social events, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed as though this was a great burden, dealing with Sherlock. “I suspect no amount of arguing will resolve this disagreement, brother. Shall we chose an event, then, and place a wager on the outcome?”

“Fine.” Sherlock nodded curtly. “We’ll need independent witnesses, of course.”

“Do you think-” Mycroft asked, hesitating to finish his sentence.

Sherlock nodded again. “Those two will be fine.”

John and Greg were standing well back – they were not getting in the middle of this one. The brothers stood practically nose to nose, glaring at each other as the words hung in the air.

“Do you think they mean-” Greg asked quietly.

John cut him off. “Yes. Yes they do.”

“Seriously?” Greg’s voice almost squeaked.

John looked sideways at Greg, amused at his panic. “Greg, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have. Just go with it. It’s a whole lot easier.”

Greg stared at him in disbelief. As he and John looked at each other, the resignation draining across from John’s eyes to Greg’s, Sherlock’s voice sounded.

“I’ll let you know when I chose the right event. Come on, John.” John pushed off the wall and followed Sherlock, waving one hand at Mycroft and Greg.

“Don’t argue, Mycroft. Just let him have this one.” Greg said, pre-empting the indignant objection hovering on Mycroft’s lips.

Mycroft looked at him in exasperation before throwing his hands up. “Fine.”

Greg looked at him pointedly. “I’m expecting you’ll let me know the details.” He said to Mycroft, who had the good grace to look abashed.

“I will make all the necessary preparations, of course.” Mycroft replied. Nodding, Greg moved past him and made his way home, shaking his head at the odd night he’d just had.

+++

“Jesus, this is…” Greg started, until John pressed another drink into his hand. The initial awkwardness had been immediately lifted when they’d surveyed each other, John and Greg bursting out laughing while the brothers scowled deeply at each other.

“I’d call that a draw, gents.” Greg had gasped, and both brothers had turned their dark gazes on him instead. The four men in their almost identical cowboy outfits stood near the doorway, eight exposed arse cheeks displayed for all to see. In comparison to the room at large, they were positively chaste – there were men dressed in less than a whole g-string, John had been a little horrified to notice – but all four were demonstrably self-conscious in their costumes, especially given the company – the most flamboyant gay men in London, celebrating the birthday of the first gay man’s club in the city.

“Drink time.” John had declared, slinging one arm over Greg’s shoulder. They’d walked to the bar, each intending to get as drunk as possible in the hopes of forgetting this whole evening. Sherlock and Mycroft watched them leave, each pair of Holmes eyes following the progress of one of the two well-crafted arses. Neither acknowledged it to even themselves, but they too headed towards the bar.

A few drinks later, both John and Greg had relaxed somewhat. Mycroft and Sherlock were standing with them, all four drinking committedly, and more relaxed for the fact. The number of anonymous hands that had groped, grabbed and caressed their bare skin had been disconcerting, and nobody was mentioning it. Especially as each of the four had a distinct preference for who would be doing the groping in future.

“To great ideas.” John offered, and all of them drank, even Mycroft grinning at the toast.

“Here’s a great idea,” Greg said, and he reached behind Mycroft, one large hand gripping the pale globe of his arse and squeezing firmly. Mycroft yelped, spilling his drink. Greg grinned, raising his glass and smiling victoriously.

“Indeed it is,” Sherlock replied, turning to John. In a blatant show of one-upmanship, both long arms reached behind John and landed on his exposed buttocks. The large hands covered most of John’s compact rear, pulling him into Sherlock with a yelp of his own. They stood chest to chest for a moment, Sherlock’s challenging grin staring down at John’s. Given their proximity, it was almost a natural action for him to reach up on tiptoe and press his lips to Sherlock’s. He added a quick grope of his own, pressing his fingers into the pert arse he’d been admiring covertly all night.

“Mycroft, you’re missing out!” John teased him, and Greg, spirits buoyed by his not-actual-rejection earlier, turned cheekily side on to Mycroft, presenting his arse for the groping. Mycroft’s face burned, but his eyes were locked on Greg’s gently swaying cheeks. After a long moment, he reached forward, sliding one hand around to cup Greg’s butt.

“Give it a squeeze, for God’s sake!” Greg admonished him, and Mycroft obeyed, long fingers grasping at the warm flesh. John and Greg let up a loud “Yeeeeaah!” at the motion, downing their drinks and ordering another round. Both Mycroft and Sherlock were avoiding each other’s gaze at this point, each experiencing the alarming heart palpitations associated with either myocardial infarction or sexual attraction. Both had their suspicions as to which it was.

At the bar, “Divide and conquer?” Greg muttered to John, and John nodded. They grinned at each other, their shoulders bumping in solidarity before they turned to face their Holmes men. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand, while Greg took hold of Mycroft, leading them away to opposite sides of the room.

+++

John and Sherlock headed to a darkened corner, John pushing Sherlock down on a couch. Several couples were already dotted around the area, kissing enthusiastically in the various states of undress their costumes presented. John ignored them all, straddling Sherlock, grabbing his large hands and placing them on his own arse.

“Okay?” John asked Sherlock. In response, Sherlock reached one hand up to pull John’s head down so they could kiss, before returning to his arse. Both hands were there now, kneading the muscle gently in time with their kissing. John’s skin was smooth and finely haired, and Sherlock could feel the hairs brushing his fingers as they shifted across the warm skin. He experimented with pressure, rhythm and hand position, fascinated by the sounds and movements John was making in response to his varied techniques. Their kissing was messy and as slightly drunk as they were, all of it lending a surreal edge to John’s experience. Sherlock’s lips were incredible, he thought, licking along them, tracing that unique shape, drawing them into his mouth so he could suck on each of them. There were endless possibilities with kissing that mouth, and John intended to have a shot at each and every one.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was tracing the very shape of John’s arse, making a copious number of observations about its shape, texture and temperature. Delightful though it was, Sherlock wondered in what other ways he could extract data from John’s gorgeous bottom, until John’s spread legs also lead Sherlock to another possibility. His hands, having roamed over every inch of John’s arse, drifted downwards, brushing the hairs that covered his perineum.

“Oh, God yes.” John moaned, and Sherlock took the hint, the tips of his fingers pressing into the skin, massaging it and even brushing against the back of his balls. John bucked at this, tilting his hips backwards, not even aware of the view others might have had, had they cared to look. Sherlock’s fingers were exploratory, gently caressing every inch of John as his mouth kissed the side of John’s neck. John was panting now, shuddering face pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder as he was able to draw his long fingers over John’s balls, one hand pressing into his perineum, the rhythm slow but insistent.

“Finger me, Sherlock.” John whispered, his teeth biting down on Sherlock’s earlobe with no little pressure. Sherlock bucked his own hips in response, a deep groan tearing from his throat.

“But…” he protested until John, who’d spotted the discrete bowls with packets of lube, pressed one into Sherlock’s trembling hand. He ripped the packet open and coated the fingers of one hand, looking into John’s eyes before kissing him hard on the mouth once more. Sherlock let his hands drift back, one hand on John’s balls, the other forefinger massaging circles around the entrance to his body. John’s hips were straining backwards, craving the friction on his balls and the breach of Sherlock’s finger. Finally, it came – the pressure as he pressed gently, the gasp as the first knuckle entered him. John groaned, flinging his head back as he rode the sensation. Sherlock pumped his hand slowly, the other withdrawn to support John’s back, now that he was sitting differently, riding Sherlock’s hand.

“More.” John said, and Sherlock hesitated. “More, Sherlock!” he repeated himself, and Sherlock complied, a second finger joining the first. John groaned again, and Sherlock was grateful for the darkness and the other couples with their own noises of enjoyment to offer them some cover. Sherlock’s fingers moved inside John, slick and full, and the moment they brushed over his prostate, Sherlock knew about it – John almost writhed off his lap and Sherlock had to grab him to stop him falling on the ground. His fingers slipped out of John in the process and the two of them froze, looking at each other.

Sherlock took the initiative, shifting so that John essentially rolled over, sitting on the sofa with Sherlock crouched on the floor at his feet. John was taken aback, reactions dulled by the booze and arousal, so Sherlock was able to grab his hips, sliding them forward and sling his knees over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Did I tell you I bought these chaps from a place that outfits strippers?” Sherlock told John, as the codpiece of the ensemble separated from the rest, the press-studs giving way. John gasped as his cock sprang free and Sherlock promptly dove on it, sucking it into his mouth as far as possible. Once he was licking at the underside with his tongue, Sherlock returned his fingers to their earlier ministrations, sliding along John’s perineum and, one at a time slipping back into John’s body.

“Fuck, Sherlock!” John cried, his hips moving constantly now. Up, and they encountered Sherlock’s eager mouth; down and his fingers pushed even deeper, brushing John’s prostate as they went. John was openly groaning now, as Sherlock’s mouth moved wet and hot over his cock and his fingers slipped in and out of his arse. The tension was building, Sherlock knew as John’s movements became more and more frantic.

He managed an, “oh, Sherlock, I’m…I’m…” as a warning, before he came hard down Sherlock’s throat, fingers caressing at his prostate and face clenched in white hot ecstasy. Sherlock slowed, helping John ride out the waves of aftershock. When he collapsed on the sofa, looking spent, Sherlock eased his fingers out of John, sitting back on his heels. He spotted some tissues on a nearby table and grabbed some, cleaning up his hand as well as John’s slicked down arse.

“Bloody bollocking hell, Sherlock.” John said finally. He turned to look at his flatmate. “What got that started, then?”

Sherlock looked at him blankly. “You straddled me and placed my hands on your bare arse, John. What did you think was going to happen?”

John blinked, then burst out laughing, his limp cock jiggling delightfully. “You may have a point.” He conceded, then grinned at Sherlock.

“You however, chose these costumes, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock nodded. “I concede that I may have chosen them with a view to…the view.” He deadpanned.

John laughed again. “I may have to wear them again, if that’s the reaction I’m going to get.”

“Really?” Sherlock’s face had brightened at the thought.

“Really.” John replied, pulling him up for a kiss. “Now, I’d actually rather talk about whether your pants also have a conveniently detachable cod piece.”

+++

Greg had dragged Mycroft to the dancefloor. It was soppy slow songs in this room, and Greg pulled Mycroft towards him by the hand, before shifting his own hands to firmly cover Mycroft’s pert arse with his hands. Mycroft flailed for a moment before sighing and placing his hands tentatively on Greg’s behind. They swayed to the music, unable to do much more, closely as they were joined.  The codpieces felt odd, Greg thought, making it feel as though his groin was in solitary confinement or something. He could feel Mycroft’s body pressing against his from knees to chest – except in that one place. Generally at this point Greg, who right now was hard as a rock, would be able to tell if his male partner was in the same state – but that was impossible, the stiff leather encasing their groins completely. Searching for other clues, Greg leaned in, not kissing Mycroft, but resting his face close enough to see the ginger eyebrows, strand for strand. Greg could feel Mycroft’s glutes shifting as he moved his weight, and it was incredibly arousing. He could actually feel his body moving, Greg thought, flexing his own glutes in unconscious response to the thought. Mycroft’s eyebrow twitched, and his left glute squeezed briefly. Greg looked startled, then returned the motion. Soon they were both squeezing and releasing as fast as they could, hands glued to the large muscles as they burst into laughter. Greg buried his face in Mycroft’s neck, enjoying the fact that so much of his neck was actually on display. So much of him was covered in his three piece suits, Greg lamented privately.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of a suit before.” Greg noted.

One ginger eyebrow rose at the comment. “All you had to do was ask, Gregory.” Mycroft purred.

“Seriously.” Greg replied, flustered at the flirting, despite his earlier boldness.

“Seriously.” Mycroft echoed.

Greg was still flustered as he tried to speak. “Why did I never, how come you never…”

“Circumstances.” Mycroft murmured, his mouth hovering close to Greg’s ear now. “Moments that never appeared at the right time.”

“But this seemed like the right moment, did it?” Greg asked in amusement, indicting the throng of sweaty half or less dressed men.

“It seemed to fit the theme, yes.” Mycroft said stubbornly, though his eyes sparkled.

Greg grinned. “Sweaty, barely dressed men?” he watched Mycroft’s face squirm before putting him out of misery. “Better late than never, then.” And he kissed Mycroft. This was not a gentle first kiss, nor a great crushing display of dominance. It was bold, inviting Mycroft to play on equal footing. Mycroft rose to the challenge immediately, his head tilting to allow Greg better access. Confirmation of the sensation that had been stirring in his belly for longer than jus tonight, as it blossomed into _need_. Greg groaned at the taste of Mycroft, overwhelmingly the expensive Scotch he’d been drinking, with undertones of his citrusy aftershave. Their lips parted, tongues touching and sliding over each other, licking along each other’s lips and soothing the places that teeth nipped. Greg’s fingers were pressing into Mycroft’s firm arse now, urging him closer, a request that Mycroft was all to happy to oblige. They were no longer dancing, making no attempt to move to the music, and it was only when they were jostled that they broke apart, both panting. In mutual understanding, they found a secluded nook, Greg taking Mycroft’s arse again as soon as humanly possible.

“How is your arse so perfect?” he groaned, running his teeth gently down the side of Mycroft’s neck.

“What? Oh! Treadmill.” Mycroft replied, between gasps. “And a lot less desserts than I’d like.”

Greg chuckled, a sound that morphed into groan when Mycroft’s hands grabbed at his arse, gripping the muscle and grinding his codpiece into Greg’s. Greg returned the action, though the stiff leather of their chaps did not allow for a lot of friction to be generated. Greg was just wondering how difficult it might be to find an unoccupied room when Mycroft spoke.

“You know,” Mycroft gasped, “they come off.”

Greg pulled away for a moment. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“The codpieces. They’re detachable.” Mycroft explained. “They’re designed for strippers.”

“Of course they are.” Greg agreed, wondering if Mycroft had had an encounter such as this in mind when he ordered their costumes. He tugged at his own, then Mycroft’s, having the forethought to drop them on the floor between his feet and the wall so they could be found again, before he leaned into Mycroft, nothing now stopping their erections from brushing and then pressing together. The deep groans of relief came from both men, who grinned breathlessly at each other before they began to move, rutting together like teenagers. Hands on arses again seemed a matter of course, and the grip helped both of them control their thrusting, fingers flexing hard enough to bruise the next day. Mycroft produced some lubricant from somewhere and soon they were both slick, and the sensation was incredible, Greg thought. He kissed Mycroft again, though it was fleeting as each was panting hard now. The orgasm was not the most earth shattering Greg had ever experienced, and it certainly wasn’t the most technically wrought, but it was enough to make his knees weak and have him grasping at Mycroft’s arse again, as much to keep himself up as to steady the other man. Both their orgasms had been amazing, Greg could see as Mycroft fought to catch his breath. He looked down at himself and grinned. Both of them were covered in stripes of milky white come.

“Errr, any idea how we could clean this up?” Greg muttered, wondering how they would get home in such a state.

“Of course,” Mycroft answered, snaring a packet of personal wipes from the cabinet next to them. They each cleaned up themselves, a shade of self-consciousness crossing them. Greg found their codpieces and they reattached them, then examine their shirts critically. They were not perfectly clean by any stretch, but in the darkened lighting, it was doubtful anyone would notice, or probably care if they did, he thought.

“Did I mention this was an annual event?” Mycroft asked.

Greg grinned. “Definitely need to keep the chaps, then,” he replied.


End file.
